Legacy of the Living Dummy
by Zabbie Q
Summary: [Movie-verse AU] Slappy explains to Jackson Stander, protagonist of "Son of Slappy", why R.L. Stine gave the dummy a child


Jackson Stander found any excuse to stay near Jillian Zinman since he had moved into the two-bedroom apartment. He helped her with chores, followed her on jogs, tagged along on errands, and begged to go to her job at the animal shelter since it was summer and she planned to homeschool him in the fall anyway. Ordinarily, he would have enjoyed assisting her since R.L. Stine had created him to be kind and helpful, but all this quality time resulted from an ulterior motive. Slappy usually behaved himself when Jillian was near their adopted son.

Usually.

Jillian and Jackson drove home from the mall one day with new swimsuits to enjoy the pool in their apartment complex. Jillian owned an old, red Volkswagen Beetle which she had dubbed the Clown Car, and they enjoyed riding with the A.C. on and listening to the radio. Jackson shared with Jillian things about the ocean which he had read in Mr. Stine's old encyclopedias - although people used computers these days, their creator still kept his collection of volumes handy. Jackson started describing a few interesting facts about giant squid when suddenly he heard the sound which he hated most - the chirp which Slappy could make him hear anywhere.

He immediately stopped talking. He lost control of his body, and his mouth smirked on its own at his companion. "Mrs. Slappy, we're outta Frosted Flakes," Jackson's voice said.

Jillian didn't take her eyes off the road. "There's this new invention, puppet: it's called a phone."

Slappy giggled through Jackson and released him.

Free now, the young boy shuddered, swallowing. "I hate it when he does that," he whispered.

"I'll talk to him again," replied Jillian flatly as she steered the Clown Car toward the grocery store.

They trekked over to the cereal aisle with a shopping cart, and Jillian grabbed an extra large number of the blue boxes. "Slappy and Bob Stine used to eat this when they were younger," she explained. "That's why it shows up in some Slappy books."

"Is that why Mr. Stine has the same scene of a dummy at the breakfast table in the first three books?" Jackson asked. He remembered how Amy Kramer described her family living in a one-story, ranch-style house only for her to carry Slappy "upstairs" later as if she had lived in the Powell house instead.

Jillian put a finger to her lips. "Shh! That's artist license, not lazy writing."

Jackson snickered, and Jillian seemed to cheer up a little at his laughter.

"Hey, how would you like a 'breakfast for dinner' tonight?" she suggested. "Hannah and I used to fix that when I still lived with the Stines."

"Sure. Can I help cook?" he asked, already jumping on an excuse not to be out of her sight at the apartment.

"But of course," she grinned, and they headed over to pick up eggs.

Even though he used her as protection against Slappy, Jackson liked spending time with Jillian. She laughed at the corny jokes he told, played video games with him, took him to the tennis courts at the park, and bought him a keyboard so that he could continue the piano lessons he mentioned in his book. She even encouraged him to follow his natural good impulses by helping him volunteer at the animal shelter. He got to play with dogs and cats who'd otherwise be bored in cages, thanks to her. But most importantly, Jillian knew what it was like to be a _Goosebumps_ protagonist.

Jackson shuddered and moved a little closer to Jillian as she inspected a carton of large eggs for damage.

She looked down at him with sympathy. "Bob promised to work on a private sequel to free you from the hypnosis. He's even gotten ghost writers handling the _Goosebumps Most Wanted_ series so that he can give you a proper happy ending. He knows not to use lazy writing when it comes to private sequels."

For a brief moment, her green eyes grew a little sharper, but then she smiled at him. "Wanna grab some Pop Tarts too?"

As they browsed the aisles at a leisurely pace, Jackson couldn't help studying the older protagonist. In public they pretended to be half-siblings to explain their different last names, rather than being parent and child. No one would have believed that a girl of seemingly eighteen had mothered a twelve-year-old boy.

 _Not that we look alike anyway_ , Jackson mused. Jillian was tall, had long black hair, round green eyes, and a clear complexion while Jackson had brown hair, brown eyes, and freckles. If anything, Mr. Stine had made Jackson resemble…. The boy pushed that thought away, gritting his teeth.

Within the hour, they pulled into their apartment complex and parked in their spot. Jackson started to unbuckle his seat belt, but Jillian touched his arm.

"Can I ask something from you?"

"Sure."

Her expression appeared awkward. "Jack, I meant it when I said you didn't have to call me 'Mom,'" she started. "Believe me, I know what it's like to come out of a book with a bunch of memories that didn't really happen. And to love a family who can't be with you."

"Yeah," Jackson said, staring at his lap.

"So, you know when I ask this favor, I'm someone who's been in your shoes, and I'm giving you the option to say no. Because free will means everything to people like us."

"Sounds like a pretty big favor."

Jillian stroked his brown hair a little and lowered her hand quickly. She didn't even hug Jackson without asking first. She drew in a breath like someone resigned to bite the bullet and said, "Slappy wanted me to ask you this on his behalf. He would like to spend time with you tonight."

Jackson cringed, lifting his head. "Do I gotta?"

"No, I'll never force you to be with him."

"What if _he_ forces me to be with him?"

"Then he goes back inside a book for a week," Jillian promised. Her eyes flashed. "He knows I'll do it too."

 _Goosebumps_ books weren't pleasant experiences for protagonists (that was the point), but Jackson probably had one of the worse situations R.L. Stine had ever created. In his story, he had been a kid who liked making people happy, whether it was his parents or the little kids he volunteered with. Then Slappy entered his life. And Slappy used hypnosis to make Jackson hurt those he cared about, insisting the human boy was the Son of Slappy. His book parents even sought medication for him, yet still Slappy would not free him. And Jackson's story was the only book thus far where Slappy won at the end.

The text had been difficult enough to live through - but then Jackson had been released from his story by Mr. Stine, and Slappy had been there - Slappy, the dummy he had hated in the book. In the real world with Jackson instead of his book father and mother. The puppet had been in Jillian's arms with his wooden paws spread.

"Come to papa, son!" he had rasped, grinning like Christmas had come early.

At Jackson's prolonged silence, Jillian shifted in the driver's seat to face him better. She took both of his hands and squeezed his fingers. "If you want my advice, just let him have an hour of your time. That will satisfy him for a while."

Jackson bit his lip. "How about half an hour?"

"Whatever makes you comfortable, and I'll make sure Slappy respects it," she promised. "Despite his flaws, he really does want a family."

Jackson looked at her in disbelief. That was one thing he never understood about their arrangement. In the books, Slappy hated almost everyone and tried to enslave kids. Out of seemingly nowhere, he wanted a human kid as his son instead of a servant - even though the puppet was already using hypnosis to control him.

"Why?" Jackson asked.

Jillian's eyes grew sad. "We'll tell you someday," she answered before she opened her car door.

* * *

The air condition felt nice after the muggy heat outside, but Jackson felt too tense to enjoy that simple pleasure. He wiggled out of his sneakers as Jillian tossed her keys onto the tiny table by the door. She crossed the white carpet into the living room with her bags and held up one of the Frosted Flakes boxes.

"Got your cereal, Tony," she said to the little figure on the couch.

Slappy grinned at her. "That's why you're my favorite slave," he purred, winking.

"Call me that again, and you can sleep on that couch for a month," she replied, placing the box beside him.

Slappy reached for her hand, but she turned and sauntered into the kitchen with her share of the groceries. The dummy's arm dropped. He frowned at his wife's back, but he still watched her with interest.

Jackson hurried after her. He put the food away at a snail's pace, and when he finished with that, he grabbed the broom and swept as if trying to clean on an atomic level. Jillian caught his eye as he went over the tiles a third time, and she picked up the kitchen timer.

She twisted the knob to 30 minutes and gave Jackson a reassuring smile. "I'll be on my computer and keeping an eye on the time too," she promised.

Jackson followed reluctantly into the living room. Slappy had not even opened the cereal box despite using Jackson as a walkie-talkie. The boy stared coldly at the image of Tony the Tiger and the dummy, who didn't seem at all fazed. Slappy only raised an eyebrow questioningly at his tall wife, who nodded back.

Jillian pointed to the face of the timer, letting Slappy see his limit. His smile seemed to widen. She placed the timer on the coffee table and let it start. She patted Jackson's shoulder as he stiffly sat in the recliner near Slappy. She then nodded to her wooden husband, who reached for her hand again. She vaguely tapped his fingers and disappeared into the master bedroom.

Slappy watched her until the door clicked shut before he turned to Jackson. "How did your shopping date with your mother go, son?"

Jackson gritted his teeth. "Don't call me that." He focused on the ticking timer, wishing he had the Cuckoo Clock of Doom's ability to manipulate time.

Slappy grinned in response - always that stupid, evil grin. He folded his hands in his lap, tapping his shiny black shoe against the seat cushion. He seemed content to study Jackson even though the puppet still wore that cold expression. It boggled the boy's mind to think this dummy could get a wife as kind as Jillian.

Jackson shifted uncomfortably under his stare. In the previous books Slappy had had blue eyes, but for some reason Mr. Stine had recently given him black ones, and they certainly appeared meaner than the 90s artwork of him.

"What are you looking at?" Jackson muttered.

"My son, of course," Slappy rasped. He probably tried to sound a little kinder, but his voice had a tinge of smugness. "You look a bit like a human version of me, you know. Even got freckles like I used to have."

Jackson pulled a face, stubbornly reminding himself that in the book - written in his own first-person narrative - he had described himself and his sister, Rachel, looking alike. He had also said Rachel resembled his book father, so even though Mr. Stine hadn't specifically written it, Jackson was sure he resembled his father as well. He preferred his nonexistent book dad over this living puppet any day.

"Did you really want a human kid?" he asked.

"I'm not picky," replied Slappy carelessly. "As long as Jillian's children are mine, you could have been a two-headed monster who followed us home."

"Wow, thanks."

"You have your mother's sarcasm already," he tittered and shook his head. "Don't misunderstand me, son. I gave a _lot_ of input while Stine typed you into existence, and I'm proud of you. You are the perfect legacy for Slappy." His black eyes seemed almost affectionate, but his chipped smile remained icy.

Jackson continued to frown. "Why would Mr. Stine give you a kid?" The writer seemed scared of the dummy at times; although no one told him directly, Jackson had caught onto the implications from the rest of the family that Slappy caused trouble when he wasn't inside a book.

At the question, Slappy's expression darkened. "That story is too schmaltzy. I'll tell you a better one, like the time I invaded Canada."

Jackson scoffed bitterly. "I think I deserve to know why I exist." _And why I'm stuck living with a monster like you_.

The wooden eyebrows shot up. "You really want to know, son?" At the nod Jackson jerked him, Slappy settled against the couch. "Then for my little boy, I'll tell the tale - but only once. If you miss a detail, I won't repeat it."

"Deal." Jackson leaned closer, staring down the dummy.

Slappy cleared his hollow throat. "Once upon a time, your grandpa promised me and Jillian a kid, and almost a decade and a half later he paid up." The puppet smirked. "The end."

Jackson glared at him. "If you want to be a dad, you're doing a bad job at it."

"Lighten up, son," the puppet snickered, but his black eyes grew a little more bitter. "Regardless of my alignment on the good-to-evil scale, your papa only wants the best for you."

"Funny way of showing it," the boy retorted. "You know, it'd be nice if someone asked what I wanted before dumping me in this family."

Slappy chuckled quietly. "Your mama said something similar about being my bride."

Jackson sat up. "Stine forced her to marry you?" he gaped, feeling sick.

"No. She chose me after I won her over," Slappy insisted. "Wanted a family with me of her own volition." His gaze drifted to the glass sliding door and the woods beyond their balcony. His mouth twitched in what might have been a grimace.

The boy glowered at him. "Tell me," he insisted. "If you want me to start liking you, tell me everything."

Slappy didn't answer right away, and the timer continued to tick. The central air clicked on and hummed, and just as Jackson was about to stand and leave, Slappy spoke.

"How your mother became my willing bride is a tale in and of itself, but the story you want to hear starts a few months after the wedding. I'll try to make it suitable for children."

"When did this story happen?" Jackson asked, settling back down. He folded his arms, eyeing the dummy carefully.

"The first summer of the millennium - yes, that year," Slappy nodded to himself. "At that point in time, I had agreed to reform. I was by no means _tamed_ , son," he added, wagging a finger at Jackson lest the boy think otherwise. "But for my bride, I agreed to be less evil so we could start a life together."

"How… nice?" said Jackson, watching Slappy for any hint of a prank.

Slappy nodded again, grim now. "It would've been a sorry marriage if your grandfather locked me away all the time. So, I agreed to behave more often, and Papa promised me a happy ending." He zeroed his black eyes onto Jackson's brown ones. "Serves me right for trusting him."

* * *

Marriage had never crossed Slappy's mind before Stine approached him with their editor's idea to cash in on _Bride of Chucky_. Even after agreeing he deserved a love interest, he had not considered how a pretty face could make him sit up straight and stare when Stine had shown him his ideas for Mary-Ellen the ugly, evil doll - and then Slappy had seen Stine's concept notes for Jillian.

It took a while to convince the aged-up Jillian to be his mate since Stine refused to force her into a relationship using the Smith Corona. However, eventually Jillian admitted she loved the puppet. Stine penned a private sequel, _The Marriage of Slappy_ , taking time to develop their textual romance while the dummy and his fiancée developed their real-world one. Once he had her at the altar, Slappy took to matrimony like a lunatic to gunpowder, and he enjoyed the explosion which shaped their new life together.

Slappy by no means considered himself one of the good guys now, but for his wife he agreed to cut back on how much he gave into his natural impulses. When he and Jillian would sit in the park on weekends to busk extra money, he didn't insult or try to bite the real children - although when one man tried to get Jillian's number, Slappy let the insults fly full force until the commotion attracted the man's girlfriend.

Slappy thought Jillian did alright with marriage too. She wasn't big on sentimentality, but she stroked his head when he sat on her lap and took him with her when she went outside so he could enjoy the real world without playing dead. A real woman might not have enjoyed a kiss from wooden lips, but through the magic of the typewriter, she was literally made to be with him, and he with her.

Another benefit of his marriage was how often he saw his papa now. Although Jillian had moved out of Stine's home after the wedding to a little apartment, she continued to work as his personal assistant, transcribing his manuscripts onto floppy disks or printed computer paper to send to Stine's various publishers. For the first time in years, Slappy could freely move around Stine's residence and amuse himself with sitting beside his father and riffing him when the writer tried to concentrate. Stine saw the bonus of checking up on the newlyweds, making sure Jillian felt safe and that Slappy behaved himself. Once he was satisfied the dummy had kept his promise to reform, he left the couple alone to enjoy their odd marriage.

And enjoy it they did. Stine had left several details to the imagination within the text of the private sequel, preferring not to ask too many questions about his dummy's happy ever after, but Slappy thought he and Jillian did a good job reading between the lines. One thing their creator did impose was a spell on their marriage to keep Slappy in line. Whenever husband and wife met anew, even if one only left the room for a moment, Slappy would be unable to touch Jillian unless she touched him first.

Sometimes Jillian enjoyed that detail a little too much, in Slappy's opinion. One of her favorite past times in the evenings was to step out of the room when he wasn't looking and bring out her copy of _Slappy's Nightmare_. She would then flip to Chapter 22 where her husband rescued Baby Robby from choking.

"' _He shuffled quickly up to the crib, reached inside, and loosened the light wool baby blanket_ ,'" she read out loud one night, lounging in the armchair she liked best. "' _Then he gently pulled the blanket out from under Robby_.'"

"I was under threat of death in that scene," Slappy reminded her from the small sofa Stine had given them as part of their wedding gift. "And most of the book is just a dream sequence, so it doesn't count."

Jillian's green eyes twinkled with mischief. She rolled herself closer to the table lamp and kept reading: "' _The little boy stopped his howls. He snuffled a bit, then shut his eyes and began to drift back to sleep_.'" She looked up at him. "My hero."

Slappy scoffed. "Don't READ too much into it, doll," he said, rolling his eyes. Although he couldn't deny the playful smile she gave him looked inviting. He planned to give that pretty mouth a run for its money once she let him touch her.

"' _Slappy carefully covered him with the blanket. "You're okay now," he whispered soothingly. "You're a good boy. You're okay. Go back to sleep._ "'"

"Lock me back in a book right now," the puppet grumbled. "I'm gonna puke."

"' _He whispered into the crib until Robby was sleeping soundly, comfortably. Then Slappy tip-toed out and returned to the chair in the living room._ ' Absolutely adorable," Jillian grinned, shutting the paperback.

"I'm gonna burn that thing one of these days," he warned her.

"You shouldn't." She unfolded her legs beneath the long skirt Slappy liked on her, and she glided over to him, sinking on the rug so she could be at eye level with him. She propped her elbows on the seat cushion, resting her head on her pretty hands - deliberately not touching him. "It's one of your best scenes, you know."

"What? You didn't like how I vomited all over the birthday party you were performing at?"

It was his turn to grin as she looked heavenward. "Not what most girls find appealing, darling."

"Mary-Ellen didn't mind," he giggled.

"Then marry her."

"I'll ask Papa for the typewriter in the morning."

She narrowed her eyes, but a smile threatened to disturb her poker face. "I might just let you."

Slappy would have liked to lean forward and kiss the hidden smile, but he couldn't go far until she made contact. "Then again, you are much nicer to have around the house. You don't clash with the curtains."

Jillian ran her fingers over the book cover, tracing the picture of the distressed dummy in bed. Slappy hated how scared his blue eyes appeared, and he made an audible gag. She took the hint and tossed it into a drawer of the coffee table.

She scooted closer. "I'm glad it did get written, if only for that Robby scene."

He raised an eyebrow. "How glad?"

She winked at him. "I hear tell that for some women nothing's more attractive than a guy who is good with kids." She played with the threading on the seat cushion. "Especially if they want their own someday."

He tilted forward as far as he could. "Are you one of those women?"

She made a shy shrug. "As long as we're talking 'someday'," she replied. "Gimme a year, then we'll talk."

"You bet we will," the dummy chuckled. He could wait. Stine had already offered to type them up a child at a later date - with the disclaimer that Slappy had to prove he was ready for parenthood. "You couldn't have picked a better papa for your children, you know."

"I know." She kissed him then, freeing him to caress her at last, and the rest of the night passed by pleasantly.

* * *

They had been married for a few months when something happened which no one expected. Jillian woke up one morning sick to her stomach.

"You came from a magical typewriter," Slappy said, aghast, as he perched on the counter of the bathroom sink. He stroked his wife's hunched shoulders as Jillian rinsed out the white bowl; she had been unable to reach the toilet in time. "I've never seen any of us catch a cold unless it's part of our character."

Jillian swished water in her mouth and reached for her toothbrush. Her green eyes were teary, and her nose had turned a little red. "I vomited in the book," she said, wincing at the memory. "When your spirit possessed my body and made me puke on my sisters."

"A truly romantic moment." Slappy pretended to wipe a tear from his eye.

Jillian furrowed her brow. "But it's not you making me do this," she said. "What else could it be?"

Slappy frowned. "Either Stine messed up somehow or someone's done something they shouldn't have on the typewriter. Either way, grab your keys."

Half an hour later at the Gothic style house of their creator, Stine, Hannah, Slappy and Jillian poured over the desk in the study, carefully examining the saved ribbons from the typewriter. No one found any illicit writing.

"Then it's all your fault, Pop," Slappy accused, enthroned on Jillian's lap. "You must've done something to my bride when you wrote the sequels."

Stine adjusted his glasses, brow furrowed in deep thought. "I can fix this. I have an idea."

"Better be good," snapped Slappy.

Jillian laid her soft fingers against his cheek, gently shushing him. "What do you got, Bob?"

"A whole library of scientists and doctors, that's what," he replied. Stine pushed himself to his feet. "One of them can examine Jillian and help us narrow down what the problem is. Once I know that, then I can know what to type on the keyboard to fix her. But who to bring out?"

He stood in front of the shelves, tapping his chin. While Stine was not a doctor himself, his Smith Corona could still create characters who knew things he didn't, whether it was how to make a broom fly or how to build spaceships far more advanced than modern technology.

"Dr. Brewer works with plants," Stine mused, running his thick fingers over the dusty spines, "but he still needed to know some biology to make plant people. Dr. D works with fish, but I can give him some years at medical school for his back story. Then there's Dr. Gray - sure, he tried to kill a kid, but he knows his stuff. Then there's the more benevolent alien scientists in that unpublished manuscript I'm working on - "

"Or you can write a new doctor," Jillian said in a no-nonsense tone. She raised an eyebrow as the writer turned to her with an annoyed expression.

"...Or I can write a new doctor," Stine agreed finally, and he sent them out so he could create in peace.

* * *

The remaining three migrated to the kitchen where they congregated on stools around the counter. Hannah fixed Jillian some dry toast and a glass of ginger ale. Once it was clear Jillian experienced no further nausea, Hannah pulled the bag of mixed vegetables from the fridge and made salads for their lunch. She even set a bowl in front of Slappy.

"Okay, say your insults," Hannah said to the dummy, settling on the corner of the bar on Jillian's right. "I know you've already thought of some."

"Well, it's no fun if you _ask_ for it," Slappy replied. "Oh, wait. Yeah, it is." He tilted the bowl toward him, making a show of squinting at the tasty vegetables. "I'd say this salad is as wilted as your social life, but that would imply you _had_ a social life. This color reminds me of something I barfed up once. Will it taste better coming up than going down?"

Hannah turned to Jillian. "That's actually some of the nicer things he's ever said to me," she said with a half-smile.

"He really trying to reform," her sister-in-law replied with a chuckle, giving Slappy a wink.

"Anything for my bride," the puppet said and took a bite of lettuce. Not bad - but he wouldn't tell Hannah that.

Jillian stirred her ranch dressing into her greens and suddenly grinned. "Hey, I have a joke."

Hannah shook her head, smiling. "Is it a bad pun?" she bantered.

"Am I married to a puppet?"

"Then continue," said Slappy.

Jillian's eyes twinkled as she raised her fork and a stabbed piece of carrot. "Why are the vegetables in salads sad?" she asked. After a dramatic pause, she said, "Because they're all _dressed up_ and have no place to _grow_."

"Boo!" laughed Hannah.

Slappy jabbed his thumb toward his mate. "You know, if she hadn't married me, some poor, unsuspecting circus would've been stuck with her."

Jillian snickered. "I can't help if I was written to _clown_ around."

"Is it possible to send _out_ the clowns?" returned Slappy.

Hannah shook her head again good-naturedly. "You guys deserve each other," she murmured, focusing on her lunch.

Jillian reached beneath the counter and took Slappy's right hand, giving it a squeeze. Slappy winked roguishly at her, and he proceeded to eat with his left hand, running his stiff thumb over her softer knuckle.

* * *

It was almost four o'clock when Stine at last came out. "Okay, I think I did alright for a short story," he told his assembled family. "Dr. Karlstein was a rogue scientist who reformed after her experiment started laying eggs all over town, so she's happy to be good and help her new patient."

He waved a woman in a lab coat into the hallway. She had a streak of gray in her short brown hair, wore large glasses, and had some features which resembled Stine's. She carried her own manuscript as well as a black doctor's bag. The newborn Dr. Karlstein adjusted her glasses, surveying Hannah and Jillian. Then she looked down at Slappy, who winked at her.

"Hey, Four Eyes," he chirped. "You going as a bug for Halloween?"

Jillian nudged him with her leg, but Slappy snickered. While he might have promised to stop tormenting real children, _Goosebumps_ characters were fair game.

Dr. Karlstein blinked slowly at him. Then she sighed. "Why is it a living puppet isn't the weirdest thing I've seen today?"

"Welcome to the franchise," said Jillian dryly.

"She looks like your grandma, Papa," Slappy observed, tilting his head.

"Best I could do on short notice," Stine explained. "Grandma Roberta was a nurse in the Second World War, so I just tweaked my memories of her into a doctor."

"Let's get down to it then," Dr. Karlstein nodded, becoming more professional. "If I can step into a quiet room with the young lady - Bobby Stine, stand up straight," she suddenly ordered, spinning and slapping Stine's back. "Posture's important. And put on a proper sweater, young man. Do you wanna catch pneumonia and drop dead in front of me?"

"Not one word, Slappy," Stine hissed, pointing a minatory finger at the grinning dummy.

* * *

Hannah sat with Slappy in Stine's study while the doctor inspected Jillian in her old bedroom across the hall.

"Oh, please!" he snorted initially when his father's favorite took the chair near him. "My woman is made of strong stuff. Why would I be worried?"

"The light's better in here," she replied calmly, bringing out her homeschool folders. "I wouldn't dream of keeping you company."

"You're a terrible liar," he replied, but he didn't throw too many more barbs her way. He stared impatiently at the door of the spare room, drumming the armchair with his wooden fingers. Though he wouldn't admit it aloud, the pencil scratches and flipping pages from his companion kept the silence from becoming deafening.

After a while, Stine trekked up from downstairs and laid a cup of cocoa on the side table. "Do you still like it with cinnamon?" he asked, dipping a bendy straw into the steamy brew.

"I'm perfectly relaxed, you know," Slappy replied, leaning against the backrest. He steepled his fingers. "I've been sitting here thinking up all the ways I can compare your darling daughter to vomit."

"Maybe Dad can use your jokes for a new story," Hannah said kindly, her eyes sympathetic.

"Outside of me, everything Papa's written is garbage," Slappy sneered. He raised his eyes to his creator. "Especially that one book. What was it called? _The Ghost Next Door_?"

Stine's lips thinned. "Just drink your dumb cocoa, puppet," he ordered, shooting Slappy a warning look.

The grandfather clock in the corner ticked away slowly. Slappy felt a sense of dismay when he saw the long stretch of time he labored through had not even been an hour.

"Nobody accidentally released Mrs. Boren from 'Nutcracker Nightmare', did they?" growled Slappy.

Fortunately, no sooner had he said this, the door creaked open. Slappy sat up, his wooden jaw clenched tight. Hannah and Stine jumped to their feet and rushed to the hall, but Slappy beat them there with teleportation.

Jillian stepped out, ashen and grim. She had Dr. Karlstein's manuscript tucked under her arm.

"Well?" Slappy demanded. He wanted to grab her hands, but magic held him back. "Anything?"

To his surprise, Jillian glared down at him - her eyes had not looked so cold since the days she had regarded him as her enemy. She stiffly turned to Stine. "I put Dr. Karlstein back into her story," she said, and her fists shook a little. "She wants to take a nap and says you should take your vitamins."

"Thank you," Stine said blankly, taken aback. He held out his hands for the manuscript, but Jillian turned away instead. Stine's eyebrows sank behind his glasses. "What did she say?"

However, Jillian pointedly took Hannah's arm. "Can I talk with you?" Her voice cracked a little.

The shorter girl nodded, surprised.

Slappy teleported in front of the steps, blocking their path. "What did Doctor Grandma say, wife?" he demanded, glaring up at her. Why did she have to be so difficult? Didn't she know how long he had been waiting for news?

"In due time, husband," she said through her teeth. She stepped around him - he couldn't halt her - and went downstairs with Hannah. The front door opened and shut soon after.

Slappy zipped to the living room window on the first floor before Stine could stop him. The ladies hurried down the front path, right to the sidewalk. The neighbors went about taking advantage of the summer sunshine. Men and teens mowed lawns while kids skated or played catch. A few high-school girls stretched out on beach chairs or towels, working on tans. Slappy saw no way he could sneak out there to hear the conversation between Jillian and Hannah without being spotted.

Jillian paced the sidewalk. She gestured wildly, agitated. She waved the manuscript in the air, and at times she gripped her black hair with her free hand. Hannah gaped, barely speaking but patting her sister-in-law's arm. After awhile, she gave Jillian a hug, and Jillian buried her face into her shoulder.

Slappy pressed his face against the glass until the pane started to crack, wishing Stine had given him the ability to read lips.

* * *

When the girls came back inside, Jillian ordered everyone into the living room. "You two. Couch," she directed Stine and Slappy. Although she had a better handle over her emotions as an aged-up character, she seemed on the verge of a ballistic fit which her twelve-year-old self would have thrown.

Stine and Slappy took the couch, and Hannah sat on the armrest next to her father. Her lips thinned, and she gave Slappy an odd stare.

Jillian stood in front of them on the intricate rug, towering above her seated spectators. She held her arms akimbo and lifted her chin. She opened her mouth to speak - and faltered. She averted her eyes from Slappy, turning to Hannah with an expression which could only be described as a cry for help.

Hannah held up her thumbs. "You can do it, Jill," she encouraged her sister-in-law.

Jillian took a deep breath before she addressed Slappy. "You know I've been faithful, right?" she began, simmering rage etching her words. "I might be married to a puppet, but it's because I chose to be, right?"

"You do have good tastes," quipped Slappy, but his eyes darted from his wife to Hannah for clues.

Jillian's expression altered to a look of desperation. "So, if I'm faithful, that means I haven't been with anyone but you," she said, her voice beginning to shake. "No monsters, no protagonists. You and only you. Do you understand that, Slappy?"

Their creator coughed into his fist. "I don't think I need to be here for this - "

"Yes, you do, Dad," Hannah said firmly, pushing her father down as he tried to stand.

"You bet you do!" cried Jillian, rounding on him. "I want to know what exactly you two bozos did to me."

"Excuse me?" blinked Stine.

"Come again?" said Slappy, looking from his mate to his maker.

"Don't you play innocent with me!" scowled Jillian. "You know, I wouldn't have minded it if you guys had _asked_ me first. I would have preferred using the typewriter rather than going through months of this and labor at the end, but you guys could've just asked!" She clutched the air, practically spitting venom. "But you two have sunk to a new low. Paleontologists haven't even discovered this level yet!"

Slappy frowned at his fuming bride. He didn't normally mind being called despicable - it actually was part of the fun of villainy - but he had made great efforts to restrain his natural impulses for the sake of his marriage. He did not appreciate his woman looking him in the eye and accusing him of a betrayal he didn't commit. "Mrs. Slappy," he said, emphasizing the name, "what are you talking about?"

Jillian gave a hollow laugh. She pushed back the front of her vest and laid her hands on her flat stomach. Fixing those green eyes on him, she said in a flat tone, "Slappy, I'm pregnant."

Silence hung in the air - and then Stine snorted. "Very funny, Jillian. But you're a little late for April Fool's."

"Dad," Hannah interjected, gripping his forearm, "she means it."

"That's impossible," he scoffed, folding his arms. He gestured between the husband and wife. "Those two are… I mean, Slappy can't - doesn't - well, your biology textbook can explain it better," he said hotly, removing his glasses and furiously wiping them with his sweater.

Slappy stared stupidly up at Jillian, trying to read her eyes as she faced Stine. Either she could out-perform him at lying or...

Jillian glared at Stine. "Dr. Karlstein confirmed it," she said bitterly. "So, what did you do to me, Bob? Did Slappy put you up to this?" She spun to her husband, looking hurt.

Slappy blinked. "I'm a papa?" he rasped.

"Why would you guys do this to me?" she asked, hugging herself.

Stine held up his hands. "I had nothing to do with this."

Jillian rounded on him. "Oh no?"

"I wanted to give you guys a kid from the typewriter if Slappy behaved himself. Why would I let you get pregnant?"

"As part of a plan to keep Slappy reformed," she shot back. "That's why you let me exist instead of making Slappy end up with Mary-Ellen."

"You're family, Jillian," he returned. "I didn't force you to marry Slappy. Why would I force you to have his kid?"

Slappy only half-heard the conversation. "I'm a papa," he repeated to himself. He thought over those words carefully. Something in his hollow head began to wake up and churn pleasantly.

Jillian clenched her teeth, studying Stine. "So you had absolutely _nothing_ to do with this?"

Stine rose and put an arm around Hannah's shoulders. His free hand rested on her brown hair, and he said, "I swear on the head of my beloved daughter, I did not plot with Slappy to make this happen."

Hannah inspected her father's face. After a moment she nodded. "I believe him," she told Jillian.

Jillian's fists shook. "Then," she said, turning to her husband, "you really did use the typewriter behind my back. What do you have to say for yourself?" she demanded.

Slappy raised his head. His grin stretched further than it had ever done before. "I'm a papa!" he giggled.

"Don't brag!" she snapped. "How could you do this without asking me first? I said I'd consider kids after at least a year. You really couldn't wait that long?"

He knew his laughter made her furious right then, but he couldn't contain it. "My darling bride," he said elatedly, placing a hand over his chest and raising the other, "I promise I didn't do it."

"Ha!" she snarled.

He shook his head, smiling. "Jillian, if I was going to use the typewriter, why would I make you pregnant instead of creating Slappy Junior right there?"

She hesitated. "Well… what other explanation can you give me?"

"Whatever it is, I'm not complaining." He reached for her, but she stepped back.

Hannah, who had kept quiet, now turned to Stine. "How could this happen, Dad?"

"Search me," he answered. "It's not like the typewriter randomly selected these two to be fertile - oh, _OH_ …" His jaw suddenly dropped, and he slapped his forehead. "Oh, of course! How could I forget?"

Jillian stood up straight. "Bob, what did you do?" she demanded.

"Papa, what did you do?" Slappy asked, his raspy voice growing more excited.

Stine's round face settled on an expression somewhere between guilt and strange wonder. "It's _The Marriage of Slappy_! From the epilogue!" he breathed, clutching his brown hair. "I meant it as a joke - it _was_ a joke, really, but I thought it could work as a sequel hook if you two ever - that is - oh, wow… Wait, here!"

He jumped to his feet and darted for the stairs. Slappy grinned at Jillian as they listened to the clatter above in the study, but she refused to look at him. In a few moments, Stine charged back in with a paperback in his grasp.

"It's right here!" he exclaimed, holding up a finger to silence the three spectators. "I burnt the manuscript so Jillian couldn't be locked inside the book, but I self-published a single copy for you guys. I wanted to save it for your first anniversary, assuming Slappy could make it that far."

"Pretty big words for a man who hasn't dated since the Roman Empire fell," Slappy shot back. Yet his smile remained as he gazed at his furious Jillian. _The mother of my child_ , he thought. _The mother of my CHILDREN_.

Stine held up the paperback, which had a blank cover. It was thicker than a _Goosebumps_ book, closer to the length of a _Fear Street_ novel. Stine flipped toward the back, jabbed his finger against a paragraph with an "Ah-ha!" before he started to read.

"' _Slappy gazed up at Jillian, and her heart quickened in that way she had grown to enjoy. "Quite a story ahead of us, wife," he rasped._ '

"'" _If you think so," replied Jillian, feigning a nonchalance which could not stop the warmth which pinked her pale cheeks._ _She raised her head to study the peach-and-purple sunset,_

 _and her new husband slunk closer, which made her blush further. "What kinda sequel do you think we'll write?_ "'

"' _Slappy promptly answered, "Maybe something involving the next generation of little Slappys. How do you feel about motherhood?_ "'

 _"'Jillian pushed back a strand of hair. "How would that even work?" she murmured self-consciously.'_

 _"'"I have a few ideas," smirked Slappy, reaching for her, but suddenly he frowned -_ '"

Stine cut off reading at the plot twist where Slappy discovered he couldn't touch his bride without her making first contact. He lowered the book, shaking it vigorously. "It's all here!" he cried in astonishment. "The typewriter must have picked up on the sequel hook and took it literally. Once the story became a part of your established characters, well…" He gestured in front of him, miming a pregnant belly.

Jillian staggered back, her knees visibly weakening. "Bob, how could you!"

He snapped the paperback shut. "It was a joke! I was teasing you guys! How was I supposed to know the typewriter would alter your bodies?"

"How many years have you been using the dumb thing?" she threw back.

"I was only going to have Slappy bring a little dummy to life, not this!" he insisted, gesturing defensively. "When I first wrote him into existence, I didn't plan to give him a love interest, you know! This is weird territory for all of us!"

"Not me," smirked Slappy. His eyes trailed to Jillian's torso. How long would it take for her to give birth? Would it be quicker than a normal human pregnancy?

"Everybody, calm down," Hannah said, stepping between Jillian and Stine. "It's a lot to process."

"Tell me about it," said Jillian, clutching the nearby recliner.

Hannah put an arm around the taller woman. "At least we have a new doctor character to help us out, right? That's something positive to think about."

"Oh, I should get Karlstein some books on pregnancy!" decided Stine, the gears in his head already turning. "Best to use some primary sources in this kind of writing."

Slappy looked at him innocently. "You can use your first-hand experience from when Hannah was born, Papa," he said sweetly.

Stine gave him a strained smile, as if itching to send him back into a book. "Oh, yes. How silly of me to forget."

Jillian stepped away from them, shaking her head. "Excuse me, I'm going to be sick again."

* * *

That night Slappy teleported onto the bed as his freshly bathed beauty slipped under the covers. She had used that vanilla shampoo, and her skin glowed, making the puppet want to start claiming his goodnight kisses.

"Can I touch my wife?" he purred at her shoulder.

She turned more into her pillow, gripping the gray fabric. "Haven't you touched me enough?" she cracked.

He frowned. It hadn't been his fault the typewriter made their union bear fruit, so why did she act distant, like she still blamed him? He shuffled onto his own pillow and lowered his head until she glanced at him. "Are you more upset because you're having a baby - or because you're having _my_ baby?" he rasped.

Jillian took a deep breath. She picked at her pillow, then propped herself up onto her elbow. "If I'm honest?" she said softly. "I wanted a family with you, Slappy. Eventually. I just thought we'd have more time." She brushed his face and kissed his cheek.

"So, we got a kid sooner than expected," he shrugged, sliding against her comfortably. "Big deal."

She lowered her gaze. "A really big deal."

"What's there to be scared of? Many monsters love their mamas. Ask Jason."

"That's just it," she answered, raising her hands. "What am I even having? A human? A puppet? A human with a puppet head? A puppet with a human head?"

"Oh, I hope it's a puppet," he grinned, caressing her flat abdomen. "Then I can sit with it on my lap and be the ventriloquist for once."

Jillian groaned a little, covering her eyes. "The fact that isn't out of the realm of possibility is troubling."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Why, Mrs. Slappy?"

She raised a few fingers to peek at him. "Do you know _how_ babies are born, Mr. Jillian?"

"I can ask Papa," he said quickly, staring uncomfortably at his wife's pained expression.

Jillian drifted to sleep after midnight, ever the night owl, but Slappy lounged beside her in the dark, stroking her aromatic hair. Pride swelled inside his hollow body as he reflected on all he had accomplished to reach this point.

It had taken great pains to win Jillian's heart - and he had discovered along the way that he liked the person behind the pretty face. For that person to be forever his, he had reformed himself, held back insults, reigned in his anger, toned down the pranks he pulled on the neighbors, did a good deed here and there. No one who knew him could say he didn't work for her. Now the Bride of the Living Dummy had given him a baby. Him and him alone.

Slappy fell asleep buried in Jillian's black hair, dreaming of the family he had earned. This child seemed like his karmic reward for controlling himself, and he hoped it would only be the first of several.

* * *

During that second day, Slappy had cause for concern when Jillian woke up sick again and called Stine to say she wanted to skip work to rest. She curled up on the couch with the throw rug wrapped tightly around her and watched T.V. with a blank expression. She covered her head with a groan at any mention of food, and she seemed lost in her own world when the dummy tried to approach her.

Slappy wondered if she regretted their situation - at least until just before noon when he caught Jillian studying herself in the bathroom mirror, gently massaging her belly.

"When I found out I was pregnant, I said 'You gotta be _kid-in-me_!'" she told her smiling reflection, and she continued to smile even when Slappy playfully booed her. As she carried her puppet husband into the kitchen for lunch, Slappy knew then she looked forward to parenthood as much as he did.

Summer passed, and autumn swept in. Jillian's flat stomach grew slowly, but even after five months her belly remained a minuscule bulge, making it seem like Slappy had gotten his wish.

"Well, the book did say we'd have the next generation of Slappys," the dummy grinned in November. He sat on Stine's desk while his father wrote out notes for a new project.

"Who knew an offhanded joke could lead to this?" murmured Stine, scribbling away.

"Sometimes your lazy writing gets a lucky shot in," Slappy snickered.

Stine glared at him sharply. "Who's lazy?" he demanded.

Slappy held up his wooden fingers. "Four words: castle in a swamp," he said, twitching a digit for each word.

"That was artistic license."

"Same difference."

Stine scoffed and returned to his notes, scribbling harder.

Slappy swung his legs over the edge of the desk, watching him. Only during his courtship for Jillian had he reconciled with his papa. Although he delighted in annoying the older man, he privately admitted to himself he enjoyed sitting with him as in old times.

He allowed Stine to finish a page before he asked, "How do you feel about being a grandpa?"

Stine raised his dark eyes from his pencil. "Confused and proud," he answered with a half smile. Then his eyebrows knitted. " _Extremely_ confused. Shocked even. A little disgusted, actually. But proud. Congrats, Slapster." He offered his bigger hand to the puppet, and Slappy shook it.

"Just wait until it's Hannah's turn," the dummy tittered.

Stine frowned and held up his thumb and forefinger. "Okay, you're _this_ close to a one-way ticket to Booksville."

"Withdrawn," Slappy grinned.

As for Hannah, she assisted Jillian where she could. She went with her to browse through baby toys, kept an eye out for foods Jillian could eat, and brewed the tea Dr. Karlstein recommended when Jillian felt queasy. Slappy found himself actually grateful she existed and decided she would have the honor of calling herself the aunt of his children. Now that he was a father himself, he could understand why Stine liked her so much - it didn't change the past, but he could understand it.

"What are you gonna name the baby?" Hannah asked once while she and the spouses watched T.V. in their apartment.

"Not Slappy Junior," Jillian answered as the dummy opened his mouth to speak.

He smirked. "Why not? It works for either a boy or a girl."

"Let the kid have his own identity," his wife argued, rubbing her stomach protectively. "That's the best thing a fictional character can do as a parent."

Hannah suddenly broke into a laugh. She tapped Jillian's shoulder a few times, her eyes glittering. "You guys can go in the other direction and name the baby for the mom," she said mischievously.

"What do you mean?" Slappy asked, interested.

Her grin stretched. "If the mother is named 'Jill,' you can always name the baby - "

" _No_!" scowled Jillian.

"Jack!" Hannah and Slappy cried together.

Jillian scoffed, disgusted. "You guys are as bad as Bob is with names," she said and hit them both with the couch cushion.

Slappy let out a _heeheehee_ and touched the little mound with a pretend solemn air. "As the father, I decree this child will be either Jackson or Jacqueline."

"Then _you_ give birth," retorted the mother, getting to her feet to leave while the siblings chortled together. However, Slappy saw her shoulders shake with silent laughter as she went into the kitchen.

But Slappy didn't care what his child was named or what kind of creature it would be. He had a legacy now. Not just a bunch of books which Stine got credit for, but something he himself had actually created. Whether puppet or human, boy or girl, the child Jillian carried belonged to him, and no one would forget it. And maybe - no, definitely! - someday he and Jillian would create another child and then another. Little Slappys would run around beneath their proud papa's gaze.

At night while Jillian slept, Slappy would sometimes lay his ear against her abdomen, listening for the little life inside. "Son of Slappy. Daughter of Slappy," he murmured into Jillian's skin when he thought he felt a kick.

He could barely wait to play with his child, to teach him or her how to pull pranks on the unsuspecting neighbors, to cast spells, and to see the ideas his progeny dreamed up. And to enjoy jokes and laugh. Really laugh. The closest thing Slappy had ever had to a childhood had been the early days of his papa's writing career, but he remembered it pleasantly, despite everything which had happened between him and his writer. He wanted to relive all that fun with his little sequel and more.

"Your papa doesn't like waiting, Jack," he whispered in the dark, more tenderly than he had to Baby Robby, "but we'll have a grand time when you're here."

* * *

Then the February day came when Dr. Karlstein galloped downstairs to meet Jillian and Slappy, who had been chatting in Stine's kitchen when the little one wanted to make its big entrance. The doctor and Stine helped Jillian into her old bedroom upstairs.

"I'll be right in the hall with Hannah," Stine promised as he made for the door.

"Comb your hair, Bobby," Dr. Karlstein said as she helped Jillian get comfortable on the old canopy bed. "People will think your mother let you leave the house looking like a Sasquatch."

At Slappy's high-pitched chuckle, Stine pointed at the puppet. "Your wife is giving birth, so I'll let you enjoy that one."

During the next hour Dr. Karlstein hovered around the canopy bed, giving the parents instructions and encouragement. Slappy held Jillian's hand through the ordeal. No matter how hard she squeezed his fingers, it didn't hurt him.

"Since this is a 'fictional' pregnancy, I think it won't last as long as a human birth," Karlstein predicted.

"Feels long enough," said Jillian, panting. Her pillow was soaked from her damp hair.

Slappy rubbed her belly, excitement radiating from his painted face. "Come out and stop tormenting your mama, Jack," he giggled.

"You better," Jillian agreed.

It didn't take much longer. Dr. Karlstein soon held a little thing in her arms, tinier than a human baby.

Slappy stared, entranced. A miniature wooden puppet wiggled, eyes closed. The baby didn't cry - it didn't have lungs to breathe with anyway - and its minuscule wooden fingers gripped the air as if wondering where its mother's tummy had gone.

For once Slappy couldn't make a joke. He just gaped at his legacy until Dr. Karlstein grinned at him.

"Want to cut the cord, Papa?" she laughed. She cradled the baby against her chest, not caring about her messy lab coat. She offered him a pair of medical-looking scissors from her black bag.

Slappy followed her directions, not missing a word. He tried not to tremble as he raised the special scissors and - _clip!_

The umbilical cord fell from the tiny belly. His child gave one cry - and the wooden body convulsed into a blob of ink. It slipped through Dr. Karlstein's fingers and spattered on the floor.

* * *

Night had long fallen, and only a sliver of light peeked through the drawn curtains. Slappy stared mutely at the shadows which suffocated the spare bedroom. He sat atop the covers, rested against Jillian's back as she laid on her side. Her sniffs told him she was still awake. Neither moved. There wasn't much point.

Slappy vaguely remembered someone cleaning up the puddle of ink on the floor, either his father or Hannah. They had waved a wand which might have belonged to Amaz-O and cleaned the mess on the bedding as well - this kind of thing had warranted opening a book.

Dr. Karlstein had slipped away. She asked no one release her from her book ever again.

The grandfather clock across the hall in Stine's study chimed ten times. Slappy at last turned his head, gazing at the door between the curtains of the canopy. He blinked slowly, considering it. His dull mind began to ponder.

The covers rustled behind him. He turned and lifted the comforter back onto Jillian's shoulder. She snuffled a little. At last she spoke in a hoarse voice, "Was it a boy or a girl?"

Slappy turned to face front again. "I didn't look."

A small sniff. She shifted again, and he could tell she had buried her face into the pillow from her muffled sobs.

Slappy didn't cry. Stine hadn't given him the ability.

* * *

Stine barely flinched when Slappy appeared on an armchair in his study. His eyes looked red behind his glasses, and he left his desk to stand over the dummy. He didn't speak. He regarded Slappy a moment and then gripped his wooden shoulder.

Slappy rasped one flat word. "Why."

His father drew back and fidgeted his fingers together. His face contorted, as if trying to control his emotions. "I… think it's the typewriter."

Slappy twitched his head and narrowed his eyes. "Always the culprit, isn't it?"

Stine hesitated before he jerkily stepped to the nearby chair. He dragged it closer to the glaring dummy and sank down. He leaned forward, cupping his hands. "This is only speculation," he began with a thick voice, staring at his thumbs, "but you and Jillian came from the typewriter. It gave you two life. But not your child."

Slappy's jaw shook once. "Why should that matter?"

Stine raised his eyes. "Where would the wood for its body come from if no tree had been cut down?" he pointed out. "It didn't come from the real world, and it didn't come from the typewriter. Once it was no longer connected to the mother, it… it just couldn't exist."

Slappy slowly leaned forward. "When the umbilical cord was cut."

Stine nodded solemnly.

Slappy's body began to shake. "So, when Karlstein told me to cut it - "

His father raised his hands. "Slappy, stop - "

The dummy's limbs rattled hard. He gripped the armrest, cracking the wood beneath the upholstery. His raspy voice came out like ice: "You made me kill my child."

Stine rose, hands still out. "Slappy, don't do this to yourself - "

A flicker of light, and Slappy stood on the desk, staring balefully at his creator. " _You made me kill my child - my child - my child_!" he bellowed. " _Couldn't you just let me have my life?! Am I so unimportant that you couldn't write a proper happy ending for me?! Did you just HAVE to be funny and doom your grandchild with your LAZY WRITING?!_ "

"It was an accident!" Stine cried, clasping his palms pleadingly. Sick despair etched his face. "I can fix this! I can fix your bodies! When you and Jillian are ready, I can write you another baby - "

" _I want the baby I waited for!_ " the dummy screamed. A lamp exploded beside him. " _I want the baby I waited for! I want the baby I waited for!_ "

Rage and grief tore through Slappy, bigger than his little body could contain. Slappy did the only thing he knew to unleash his feelings - he destroyed.

The couch ripped to pieces as Slappy glared at it. The side table splintered. The desk broke in half, still with Slappy on the top, and the papers flew out and began to swirl in a cyclone. It sucked in the knickknacks, the framed pictures of Hannah, the plastic plant in the corner - and the locked books on the shelf.

Stine fled to a painting on the wall as the frame shook in the vacuum. He yanked one side of the painting, revealing a safe behind it. He hurriedly spun in the combination.

Slappy clenched his fist and moved the vortex toward the large man. He couldn't even speak - he just acted.

The safe opened. Stine spun around, a book clenched in his tight grip. He tore it open, and the struggling Slappy disappeared into its pages.

* * *

Jackson stared as Slappy fell silent. The dummy gazed out the window, jaw tightened. The kitchen timer continued to tick, almost to the end.

Jackson realized he was on the edge of his seat. He leaned back and cleared his throat. "What happened next?"

Slappy didn't look at him. "The next day Stine gave me back to Jillian to grieve with her," he said dully. "Not that it mattered. It was months before she let me touch her."

Jackson shuffled uncomfortably. "Then that's why I'm here?"

Slappy turned his head. "You're only the latest of Stine's attempts at redemption, son," he said bitterly. "You shoulda seen the other things he tried first. The silliest was bringing me out of retirement for the _HorrorLand_ series, letting me have my fill of unbridled evil for a few books before I became the hero who rescued the widdle protagonists from The Big Bad Menace." He rolled his eyes. "As if Discount Spooky World could make up for what he did. When that didn't work, he kept me locked in a book until _Goosebumps Most Wanted_ came along."

Jackson stared at his hands, swallowing. "And that's why he let you use hypnosis on a kid."

"Bingo."

"Why am I a good human then? Why not make me an evil dummy like you?"

"That's for your mother's comfort," Slappy replied. "So she can take you to the mall and the park and everywhere I can't go. Your goodie-goodie traits are to give her an easy time with motherhood."

Jackson quirked an eyebrow. "Then why in the book did you fight so hard to make me wicked?"

Slappy gave a hollow chuckle. "Because that's the story your grandfather sold to his publisher. Notice he didn't even do something clever like develop your book father to contrast him with me. That would've delayed him getting paid." Slappy clenched his tiny fist. "All of us exist to make Stine money and build up his ego, son. Even Auntie Hannah brings in the royalty checks."

Jackson's throat tightened. His knuckles grew white. "Did you guys really want me?" he whispered. "Or was Mr. Stine gonna write the story anyway?"

Slappy zeroed in on him. "Of course we wanted you. Stine had the decency to ask before writing the book. If we had said no, your story would have been _Son of the Haunted Mask_ instead."

Jackson tried not to think how that plot would have gone. "So… I'm like a replacement goldfish for your first baby?"

The puppet shook his wooden head. "No, you're my son. Stine promised to give us a child from the typewriter before we married, and you're the fulfillment of that promise. It took over a decade, but you were what was planned."

Slappy shuffled his legs and pulled himself closer to Jackson. He could have easily teleported next to the boy, but he scooted himself to the edge of the couch, keeping his black eyes trained on his face. "You, Jackson, are my legacy now. The Son of Slappy. When Jillian feels ready, Stine will bring your sister to life next, and she will be the Daughter of Slappy. We'll be quite the family when we're all together."

Jackson shrugged, struggling to fight down the wave of despair. His heart yearned for his book parents - but they weren't alive, and they never would be. After everything Slappy and Jillian had gone through, Mr. Stine would never give Jackson to another family. He swallowed. "I guess you're the only dad I really got," he said hoarsely, blinking hard.

"You know, Jillian didn't want to be my bride at first," the dummy said, unusually gentle. "But she chose to become mine without the typewriter willing it. I actually do have some positive qualities - few as they are," he cracked.

A ghost of a smile appeared on Jackson's face. "I always thought my dad would be able to reach the top shelf though."

"Hey, hey! Only your mother can make short jokes and live," he warned.

Jackson's smile widened slightly. "Don't hypnotize me in the real world, and we got a deal."

However, Slappy suddenly tisked and shook his head. "Oh, I can't promise _that_ unfortunately." His lips parted, showing his wooden teeth.

Jackson's eyes widened. He tried to jump to his feet. He tried to cry out for Jillian, but he was silenced by a loud _chirp_.

Jackson immediately settled down and smiled at the dummy.

Slappy reached out and touched Jackson's wrist. "Your papa won't hurt you, son," he promised softly, "because a papa does what's best for his children. Someday I'll let you live your goodie-goodie life like your mother wants, but right now you're gonna help your papa."

Jackson nodded. He wanted to scream, to struggle, but he continued to smile at Slappy.

Slappy nodded back, satisfied. "Listen, son. You are more than a replacement goldfish to me, but nevertheless Stine sees you as an adequate substitute for your sibling. See, I have to say 'sibling' because I don't know what my own child was. Can you imagine that, son?"

"No one knows your pain, Papa," Jackson heard himself say sympathetically. "You and Mama deserve much better."

"Exactly," growled Slappy. "I can't even make Stine feel this pain because his precious Hannah can't die the way your sibling did. If Stine had spent less time being a 'clever' writer and more time being a good papa, then your sibling wouldn't have been lost to his negligence."

"Poor Papa," Jackson murmured. "You wouldn't lock me in a book if I needed you."

"Of course not. Because a good papa gives his family a happy ending, and tomorrow you'll help Papa teach your grandpa a lesson, won't you?"

"Anything for my papa," agreed Jackson.

"That's my boy." Slappy took Jackson's hand and gave it a shake. "The first of my new and many children. Now, smile for your mama when she comes in."

He turned to the kitchen timer, which gave a shrill _briiiing_. Almost immediately the master bedroom opened. Jillian stuck her head out and raised her eyebrows questioningly at Jackson.

His hand rose in a thumbs up, and he gave a half-smile - not eager, but like someone who decided to tolerate an unwelcome guest. It must have looked convincing because Jillian nodded, relaxing.

 _He tricked you, Jillian!_ Jackson wanted to cry, but instead he got to his feet. "Can I still help with dinner, Jill?"

"Of course," she replied and led him to the kitchen. She passed Jackson the skillet to start making scrambled eggs for their breakfast-for-dinner while she grilled sausages.

Jackson smiled like a dutiful son while they worked. At one point, his head turned, and he peered out at Slappy, still on the couch.

His puppet father winked.

Against his will, Jackson winked back.

THE END

* * *

A/N: I had been working on a different fic which was connected to "Good Intentions." Jillian had made some comment about Hannah and Zach having kids, and for some reason I suddenly imagined her saying something that implied she and Slappy had had a baby. One thing led to another, and this resulted.

So, _Son of Slappy_ came out in 2013. The first _Goosebumps_ movie came in 2015. What do you think happened in between?

Stine: Look, Slappy. I wrote you a son and daughter, and you actually win in this book. Will you be good now?

Slappy: Lolz, I'm gonna destroy everything.

Stine: Then enjoy Page Town for a few years.


End file.
